Nigel Slater gets to grips with readers' questions

So, I'm sitting in a cafe in a quiet backstreet in Budapest with an espresso and an Ian McEwan that I am reading for the second time, eavesdropping on my fellow breakfasters and wondering if the guy at the zinc counter is any good at French toast. (He is, and it later arrives still sizzling, like a canary-coloured cushion, its edges mapped with gold, with a Mr Whippy-sized curl of creme fraiche on the side.) I'm savouring every page of my novel and every moment away from my desk, but there's a niggle that just won't go away: the feeling of guilt and embarrassment that goes with knowing that back at home there are 1,728 unanswered emails on my laptop, a good percentage of which are yours.

I love your emails, I really do. But occasionally there comes a point when I want to run and hide. I appreciate your endless questions about cooking, the cheerful hellos and the gentle ticking-offs; I can never thank you enough for the hundreds of glad tidings and grumbles, and the non-stop train of requests for lost recipes. (Really, some of you are so careless.) I have lost count of how many times I have saved people's bacon after they have thrown the recipe out with the recycling.

Then there are the personal recipes that readers want to share with me (turnip crumble, oh thank you Ms C, I'll treasure it); the beautiful photographs of recipes you have made from the column (delightful and deeply reassuring); the incessant requests to help out charities (I am not a bottomless supply of free books); requests for demonstrations (no way) and the occasional bit of hate mail (listen, I am never going to be a vegan, so I really don't know why you bother).

The questions awaiting replies range from what to do with a glut of damsons (make gin, Mrs P) to how to get lumps out of bechamel sauce (push it through a sieve, Guy). How do I get chocolate to set soft instead of crisp on a cake? (Add a little cream to the mix.) Why does my double cream always go grainy when I whip it? (Try putting the bowl and the whisk in the fridge, and stop whipping as soon as the cream looks like an unmade bed rather than a mountain peak. Whipped cream should lie in soft, undulating folds as if on the verge of collapse.) Some of you prefer to remain anonymous, like the reader who sent a comprehensive list of things to do with the green coriander seed that I had mentioned in passing (crushed in a pestle they have the flavour of honey, citrus and spice), and it was a delight to know that she uses them in fish curries, bean salads and in fish chowders. I could almost smell her lovingly described chicken stew with black olives, borlotti beans, summer savory and red wine vinegar. Her suggestions did much to lift the spirits after a request for ideas of how to deal with a frozen lump of last week's leftover roast beef (the dog, Sam, the dog).

A reader from Devon asks if they should remove the middles from their courgettes before cooking. (No, it isn't necessary unless your courgettes have big seeds, then I suggest cutting them out before frying them briefly in olive oil and dressing them straight from the pan with lemon juice, chopped basil and toasted pine kernels.) What can I do with cold porridge? It is quite heavenly cut into wedges, fried and topped with golden syrup - but surely your mother told you that, Mr McBrain? The perennial chocolate-melting question that pops up like a drunk at a party. (For the last time, use chocolate with at least 70 per cent cocoa solids, snap it into small pieces and melt it in a bowl over (not touching) gently simmering water. Do not stir, and remove from heat the second it is no longer solid. Now don't ask me again.)

And finally, how do I get damson stones out of jam? (Tricky one this, Alice, but I find that if you leave the jam for a few minutes before pouring it into the jars then you will find some of the stones come naturally to the surface. Scoop them off with a draining spoon, but take care when eating the jam, as there are bound to be plenty more hiding.)

Kelly, and several others, wants to know if it's OK to reboil marmalade that hasn't set. The answer is yes, it's fine. Just boil it up, watching carefully so that it doesn't caramelise and go gummy, which is only too easy to do on the second boiling. Probably the most hopeful query ever was that from a man making custard for the first time. 'It's gone into tiny lumps and is looking like scrambled egg, what do I do now?' What I particularly liked was the implication that I was just sitting there, like an agony uncle in a cupboard waiting for his call. My guess is he has probably binned it by now. For the record, fill the sink with cold water, pour the custard into a cold bowl and dunk it into the sink. Now whisk furiously. Or you could try adding an ice cube to it and beating it till it melts. If that doesn't work, chuck it.

So, I pull open the door, switch off the bleeping burglar alarm, put down my suitcase and open my laptop. Ping. 'You have 758 new emails.' Oh thank you, no really, thank you.

Here's that adorable French toast recipe from Budapest.

French toast, hot marmalade sauce

Be sure to have something on the side to balance the richness, such as a fruit puree or a splash of sharp dairy produce. Serves 2.

100ml full-cream milk

2 eggs

a dash of vanilla extract

1 tbsp caster sugar

4 thick slices of brioche or good, white bread

30g butter

cream or creme fraiche, and icing sugar to serve

Lightly beat the milk and eggs, beat in the vanilla and sugar, then pour into a shallow dish. Dunk the slices of bread into the milk and egg and leave for a good 5 minutes.

Warm the butter in a non-stick frying pan. When it sizzles, slide in the soaked bread. Let it form a crisp crust on the outside - a matter of 3 or 4 minutes. Turn the bread over with a fish slice or palette knife then cook the other side for a minute or two till golden.

Lift the toast out and drain on a piece of kitchen paper and serve, dusted with icing sugar, if you wish, and cream.

For the sauce:

200g marmalade, probably not too dark or thickly cut

a squeeze of lemon

1 tbsp whisky or brandy, or better still Cointreau

3 tbsp water

Melt the marmalade in a small, non-stick pan. Pour in the lemon juice, the alcohol and a tablespoon of the water, bring to the boil and stir to a syrupy consistency. If it seems too thick, add a little more water. Spoon over the toast.